


this is not a drive by

by Capiche



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: M/M, Mutual Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-05
Updated: 2017-03-05
Packaged: 2018-09-28 09:48:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,655
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10088849
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Capiche/pseuds/Capiche
Summary: In which there are knitting patterns, nifflers, and mayonnaise sandwiches - and, somewhere along the way, Graves falls in love.





	

Monday morning starts the way any morning does for Graves - that is, unwillingly and in a foul-mouthed fashion. 

“Someone’s cheerful,” Newt teases. His voice echoes oddly from within the case that lies open on their bedroom floor. “You’d best get up soon, or you’ll be late for work.”

Graves casts a  _ tempus _ and swears some more. “I’m already late for work,” he groans, summoning a pair of pants to make himself decent. Diana trills at him cheerfully from where’s she’s curled herself in a patch of sunlight on the carpet, her blue-green Occamy scales iridescent.   _ Mornings _ .

“Mornings aren’t so bad, Percy.” Graves half-watches as a familiar curly mop appears over the side of the case. 

“You’re such a morning person,” Graves snarks, but there’s no malice behind it despite the stern expression he affects. Newt beams as he clambers onto their bed. “I should’ve known, Mr. Scamander.”

The Mr. Scamander in question only grins wider as he leans in, the edge of his lips quirked up in a way Graves refuses to call  _ adorable _ . 

“Perhaps I can persuade you on the merits of mornings, Mr. Graves,” he murmurs, close enough for Graves to feel the puff of breath on his lips. There’s the familiar rush as his heart beats faster in his chest

“Oh?” he manages over the dizzying swell of affection, still as potent as the first time he had felt it under his skin.

“Oh,” Newt agrees, and then there isn’t much talking for a while, and Graves is an hour late for work. 

 

***

 

“Mister Graves, sir,” says Goldstein, her sharp eyes spotting him in his attempt to slink unnoticed into his office. “We have a situation downtown.”

“Auror Goldstein,” he sighs - and if the way her eyes narrow is any indicator, his subtle adjustment of Diana, who had claimed the spot around his neck this morning, doesn’t go unnoticed either. “Let’s talk in my office.”

She nods and thankfully waits until after they’ve both settled down in his office to be insubordinate.

“How’s Newt?” she asks, not quite managing the tone of innocence. The coffee she sets on the table between them barely makes up for the sheer cheek. He settles for glaring at her as busies himself with sorting through the contents of his in-tray, shooing Diana away when she slithers down his forearm to dunk her head enthusiastically into his cup. 

“As he always is, Goldstein,” he replies. A memo from Piquery regarding workplace behaviour goes sailing through the air to the recycler in the corner, as does another memo, this one from the Director of Finances, about improper usage of MACUSA funds to purchase alcohol and Valentine’s Day gifts. It’s only after he’s read and binned a memo about flooding in the men’s bathrooms on Level 30 that Goldstein speaks again. 

“You know,” the elder Goldstein says conversationally. “I was talking to Newt the other night.”

“Were you?” Graves says, affecting boredom. 

“I was,” she confirms. “And it was very interesting to hear about your plans for a certain day coming up.”

The other auror is treated to his best menacing glare for silencing minions. “Your point, Goldstein?”

“You’re taking Newt to the most romantic restaurant in New York. On Valentine’s Day.” She says this - for a lack of a better word - pointedly. 

“It seemed appropriate,” Graves says acidly, but he’s clearly losing his touch because the sly grin on her face doesn’t falter even slightly. “Fine,” he grouses. “What about it?”

Goldstein leans forward, impish grin still in place. “Queenie told me a while ago but I didn’t believe her. Are you actually going to-” she doesn’t finish her sentence. 

Graves thinks about the black velvet box hidden in the coffee pot that Newt religiously avoids, about the half-formed drafts of The Speech he’s had floating around in his mind ever since buying the ring two months ago on an uncharacteristic whim, about gentle smiles and gentler hands that still smooth away his nightmares as patiently as they had the first time, and -

“Yes,” Graves says finally, kindly ignoring her excited gasp. “Now. I believe there was a situation?”

 

***

 

It had been one month since Graves had been found unconscious and under a stasis charm in his own apartment. Six months since he’d been first captured by Grindelward. 

Graves had looked -- well, he had seen better days, as Queenie, the younger Goldstein sister, had put it. According to the doctors in the ICU of New York’s Magical Emergency Ward, he looked like he was lucky to be alive.

“It’s truly remarkable, sir, how quickly you’re recovering,” one of them - a junior doctor - had commented a week into the painful process of regrowing bones and healing torn ligaments. “That is, considering…” and she’d trailed off, looking very much like she had just remembered the department-wide memo about the patient in ICU-3W who had lingering psychological wounds.

“Indeed,” was what Graves had said, taking pity on the way the doctor’s gaze had gone a little rabbity, and then politely looked the other way when a new doctor had taken over his daily check-ups. 

“Don’t you dare even think about going back to work yet,” Piquery had said sternly, during her very first visit to his bedside. Clearly mistaking his expression for protest rather than surprise at the fact he was  _ still employed _ , she had ploughed on. “I’m not about to lose my best auror to that goddamned dark wizard.” 

It had been a month now, and Graves had been deemed physically fit for release from the ICU ward. Still not fit for active duty, and the medical report had said nothing of his mental fitness, but Graves had been pathetically grateful for the reprieve from the stifling atmosphere of the hospital and hadn’t questioned the assessment. Instead, he’d nodded dutifully through the head doctor’s medical orders, accepted the parchment with his dosages, and stumbled his way through the apparition home. 

But. Standing alone in the middle of his apartment, Graves finds himself questioning other things. 

Logically, he thought, it should have been obvious that Grindelward would’ve left some kind of magical residue in the place. His magical signature, for one, and Heaven knew what kinds of dark magic he had practised in the apartment - that was, the ones other than what he’d used on Graves. 

He wandered around aimlessly for a little while, taking stock of the sparse apartment that had been his home for so long. Apart from the odd photograph of his parents and sister, it was like looking through a stranger’s house, with he as the infrequent guest. Had he really never gotten around to the decorating the walls in all of the seven years he’d lived here? 

Abruptly, the weight of the past five months settled around his shoulders, stifling, as if it’d been waiting for an opportune moment to do so. All his aurors - and even Piquery, whom he’d spent the lion’s share of his Ilvermony years with - hadn’t realised that he’d been gone for five months. Grindelward had fired Tina Goldstein for an almost laughably small offence, sent more than five minor felons to be executed, and still, nobody had realised.

No-one at all. 

Taking one last look at his empty apartment, the sad remains of the life he had, he turned on his heel and apparated. 

 

***

 

Soon after, Goldstein leaves with promises to take care of the situation downtown with a minimal of collateral damage,  _ yes, that means no demolition works, Goldstein _ , and also to mention  _ absolutely nothing, not a single word  _ about their morning conversation. Once the door closes behind her, he busies himself with paperwork more to stop himself from going over The Speech over and over again in his mind. 

At around noon, just as he’s reading through a missive regarding the draft Beasts and Creatures’ Welfare Bill, there’s a tentative knock on his door. 

“Come in,” he calls, absently noting down that Rathburn, the Director of Magical Justice, hadn’t put in the financial penalties section like they’d discussed, the bastard. Diana’s snoring is right in his ear, her beak on his shoulder as it is, but after two years this has become more a comfort than anything else. 

“Did I come at a bad time?” 

Diana cheeps in greeting, taking to the air. Graves looks up to see Newt standing just by the door. His stance is awkward, but the smile he gives Graves is bright. 

“Not at all,” Graves says, coming around from behind his desk. There’s something almost helpless about the way he comes to Newt in the middle of the office, drawn to the other man like the way a moth circles a particularly bright light, or how a particularly devout pilgrim clings to their scriptures. 

“I’m glad,” murmurs Newt, tilting his head to meet Graves in a sweet kiss that tingles through to his fingertips, and for a while they just stand there, a warm weight in each other’s arms. 

“Have you had lunch yet?” Graves asks when they part eventually, more for air than anything else. “We can go to the cafe that you like. The one on the corner of Fifth Street?”

Newt shakes his head minutely, expression still a little dazed and lips a shiny red. “I brought some lunch,” he explains, setting down his suitcase and pulling out a bag whose smell has Graves’ mouth immediately watering. “Will lasagne be alright?”

“It sounds perfect,” Graves says warmly. A wave of his hand sends two plates and sets of cutlery flying out of the cupboard in his office, setting up two places at a hastily transfigured table. “Thank you, Newt.” 

“Oh, it was no trouble.” Newt flushes a little, but there’s a pleased smile on his lips as he takes his seat opposite Graves, plating up their portions. “You do tend to get a little forgetful of meals on Mondays, what with the backlog of paperwork and all.”

Graves scowls a little, but there’s no heat behind it. “Tell me about it. I got the new draft Beasts’ Bill, just now.” 

Newt lights up. “Did the new detainment period reductions go through?” 

“Yes, but the financial penalties didn’t.”

“Oh.” Newt chews on his forkful of lasagne, swallowing before he speaks. “It’s alright, the important part was that the mandatory detainment period was reduced. Creatures don’t handle prolonged periods of testing very well - and it’s good for there to be some regulation on the safe handling of them as well, but that goes without saying…”

Newt continues to talk about the new welfare regulations (which will be called the Scamander Bill, but that’s not something Graves is going to tell him just yet) throughout lunch. 

He goes on to talk about the other ways MACUSA can begin to implement more beasts- and creature-friendly regulations. Graves listens intently, because he'd be a fool to dismiss such detailed and prudent advice, but Newt is breathtaking like this - gesturing wildly, eyes earnest and bright, Pickett clinging to his lapels and an occamy, Diana, lazily winding through the air behind him. Graves could do it right now, he  _ wants _ to do it now, when Newt is so happy and vibrant and everything Graves never knew he wanted - he’ll have to do it without the ring, sure, but he’s sure that Newt wouldn’t mind anyway - he tends to give a lot of the jewellery he owns to the niffler anyway. 

He’s just sliding out of his seat, The Speech on his lips, half of him convinced that the other half’s taken leave of their collective senses that he’s  _ actually really doing this, Mercy Lewis _ , when the door bangs open. Graves jumps and curses as his knee hits the table. 

“Mister Graves, sir!” says Abernathy. Behind him, Graves can see Goldstein hovering with a vaguely contrite expression on her face. “We have a situation downtown!”

 

***

 

The situation downtown turns out to not be a Grindelward situation, but a few of his less intelligent lackeys. What they lacked in the brains department, however, was certainly overcompensated for by their sheer ideological fervour and knowledge of Dark curses. And Newt, being Newt, had insisted on following them once Abernathy had let slip that there were potentially hostages of the beasties kind involved. 

And, of course, Graves being Graves, had learned his lesson on trying to keep Newt away from beasts and creatures the hard way. 

“Unbelievable,” Graves bites out, blocking a particularly nasty curse that would have any unfortunate victim expelling their entrails. The tides have turned the skirmish in their favour, with only a few of the more brainless and dangerous remaining behind. MACUSA’s holding cells will be a lot less empty after tonight. 

He can see Abernathy and Goldstein and a few of his other senior aurors helping to subdue the stragglers to his side. Behind the semi-blockade they’ve formed stands Newt, who is presumably still treating the baby unicorn they found starved and chained inside a dirty cage. 

“You’ve got everything under control?” he asks Goldstein. He isn’t disappointed as she nods curtly and waves him away. 

Goldstein’s more than competent enough, and the rest of his senior taskforce is no joke either. Assured that the remaining Grindelward followers won’t bring the entire structure down around their ears in a daring escape, Graves ducks behind their shield.

He finds Newt standing by the foal, which is still skittish but unsurprisingly warming up to Newt. 

“Will they be alright?” Graves asks, keeping a respectful distance away, but not so far that he won’t be able to assist Newt. 

“Mmph,” says Newt around his wand. He gives Graves an apologetic look and takes it out. “She’ll be alright. She’s been starved, possibly beaten and used for some spell practise, and her blood levels are worrying low, but unicorns are hardy creatures.” 

Sometimes, occasionally, Graves would think that he had finally seen the worst of humanity. Then something like this would wander past him, and he would realise that no, humanity was nothing if not innovative in its cruelty, and he would never, ever, see the worst of it and be done with it all.  

“You’ll take good care of her,” Graves says, once he’s reasonably sure his voice won’t shake with rage. The look Newt gives him, gently assessing, tells him that he hadn’t quite succeeded. 

“You aren’t so bad, yourself,” Newt murmurs, running one last diagnostic spell to check that the foal hasn’t any contagious illnesses or parasites. The spell flares a brilliant yellow, and Newt looks satisfied. “Alright, my dear,” he addresses the unicorn. “I have a case - it’s very safe, and warm, and you can stay there for as long as you’d like. Does that sound good?” The unicorn whinnies, nuzzling up against Newt. “Alright, alright,” Newt laughs. 

He props open his case, and they both watch as the unicorn takes a step forward, disappearing down into the warm light of Newt’s shed. Newt closes the suitcase, engaging the latches with a click. 

“Grindelward,” he sighs, finally turning fully to Graves. “I suspect he was using the unicorn for its blood.”

“Doesn’t drinking a unicorn’s blood give you a cursed life?” Graves wonders, gently steering Newt towards the doors. Around them, the aurors are now cordoning off the area for the Investigations unit. He catches Goldstein’s eye, who nods at his silent order to take the reins on cleanup. 

“It does.” Newt takes Grave’s proffered arm and waits until they apparate back home to continue. “But there are a lot of potions that use unicorn blood. Healing potions.” 

“They sound very...illegal.” The kind of illegal that sees paperwork piling up on his desk and sets his blood boiling.

“Oh they are.” Newt pecks Graves’ cheek affectionately as he helps Newt with his coat. “But that doesn’t make them any less effective. And being a dark wizard is fairly hazardous to one’s health.” 

“Then he should quit his day job,” Graves grouses as he sends their coats to hang by the front door. “Make all our lives easier.”

“And what should he take up?” teases Newt. The case he sets down gently in the living room. “Knitting?”

“Well, he’d first have to go to jail. If we’re feeling generous we might give him some yarn and patterns in his highly warded cell.”

“Fair,” Newt muses. “It might balance out some of his more homicidal tendencies, hmm?”

Graves rolls his eyes fondly. “One can hope. Now, what do you want for dinner?”

 

***

 

In the days after Graves’ release from ICU he spent a lot of time wandering through Central Park. 

Technically, he fulfilled the terms of his release: no strenuous physical activity, no strenuous magical activity, and definitely no active duty for a month _which was_ _non-negotiable, Mister Graves_. 

Technically, he had also been restricted to outings with an auror guard, in the hopes of preventing another Grindelward crisis. There’d been a scathing retort on the tip of his tongue when he’d read that one, something along the lines of  _ Grindelward is fucking evil, but he’s not fucking stupid _ . 

But, still. Being angry took energy, and Graves had barely enough energy to keep living some days. 

So Graves took daily walks through Central Park. His apartment - the new one he’d bought after ignominiously dumping his previous one on the housing market - was a gorgeous brownstone overlooking the parklands. More importantly it was defensible, with built-in defences that he’d shored up as soon as he’d moved in. 

It was early on in his walk one autumn morning when a black blur flew across his path, kicking a storm of leaves in its wake. 

Squirrel? Graves wondered, then shook his head. No squirrel was that fast. And if it was, then it was time to get liberal with the stunners. 

Magical creature, then. Which was, unless Grindelward had also managed to wreck the Statute of Secrecy in five months, stunningly illegal. 

_ Technically you’re still on mandatory medical leave _ , a voice whispered in his mind. 

_ And technically, he wasn’t going to be on duty _ , he quashed the first voice, trying not to think too hard about madness and the first signs of it. He checked that his wand was safely in its arm holster, and was just about to start out after the trail of scattered leaves, when a bundle of blue wool flew into him, knocking him down into a pile of fortuitously positioned leaves. 

“Terribly sorry!” the bundle said. Graves accepted the hand up, following the surprisingly warm and sturdy grip up the blue-wool sleeve and to an unfamiliar freckled face. 

“Nothing harmed,” Graves said, then winced at a sharp jolt of pain in his ribs. “I think.” He prodded cautiously at them, satisfied when the pain didn’t progress from irritating to blinding. 

When he looked up blue-coat was still there, watching with him a curious expression. At Graves’ look, his gaze hastily moved to somewhere over Graves’ right shoulder, fiddling with his right coat sleeve. “You’re Director Graves,” he said, almost wonderingly. Graves had gotten that tone a lot lately, usually in conjunction with some sort of expression of amazement that he wasn’t dead. 

Graves tried not to bristle. “Yes, I am. And. You are?”

Blue-coat looked remarkably unfazed by his brusque tone for someone who steadily refused to meet his gaze. “Oh, how rude of me. Newt Scamander, magizoologist.”

Newt Scamander. Graves knew him - or, at least, of him. Many an incident report had passed through his hospital room at his insistence during his convalescence. Graves may have been injured, possibly almost dead, but as far as he had been concerned MACUSA still needed to keep going. 

So, Newt Scamander. He was an interesting fellow, possibly not the person Graves would have expected to have realised something was terribly wrong with the “Director Graves” that’d had him sentenced to death. Although, he did have a brother, Theseus Scamander, who was Graves’ counterpart across the Atlantic. Perhaps it was the Scamander genes. And. Perhaps Scamander the Younger was just bad with eye contact. And standing still. 

“It appears I owe you a debt,” Graves finally said. When Scamander peered at his chin quizzically, he added: “For unmasking Grindelward.” 

Scamander’s face cleared up. “Oh! You don’t owe me a thing for that,” he said, eyes moving over to rest on Graves’ nose, which was certainly a lot closer to making eye contact. “That was - well, it certainly wasn’t any trouble. No need for thanks.”

“From what I read, he had you executed,” Graves said drily. “That usually constitutes ‘trouble’ at the very least.” 

“Well, that  _ was _ rather bothersome,” Scamander admitted, as if executions were like losing one sock out of a mildly liked pair. “But - no harm done. Except. There was some destruction. To the city?” 

“Madam President informed me that they were easily taken care of. And that you helped with the mass obliviations.” Another thing that MACUSA owed Scamander for. Graves hated owing people things. 

“Oh - Frank was more than happy to help,” Scamander earnestly tells the air above Graves’ left ear, rolling the hem of his right sleeve between his left forefinger and thumb. “I - ah, I really must get going, now. It was a pleasure meeting you?” 

That was somewhat abrupt. Graves opened his mouth to ask if he’d made a misstep by any chance (and a part of him railed at the thought of even asking in the first place), when Scamander made a sudden lunge to the side. 

“Alright, that’s quite enough,” Scamander panted. On closer inspection, Graves could see the black blur from before wrestling for freedom with Scamander, who had it pinned to his chest. “How many times do I need to tell you this? You cannot take  _ what isn’t yours! _ ”

“ _ Mister Scamander _ ,” Graves hissed, furtively glancing around the park. Luckily it was still early enough that there were very few people around and none that would remotely care about Scamander’s wild flailing in the leaves. He still cast some Notice-Me-Not charms around them, just in case. 

Scamander appeared to have won the impromptu wrestling match. Firmly taking hold of its legs, Graves watched with thinly veiled curiosity as Newt upended the creature and began to shake it. 

“Unbelievable,” Scamander scolded, as a pile of gold and jewellery continued to grow underneath the creature. “There will be no more galleon treats for a month for this - so soon after Madam President lifted the ban, as well!”  

“Hey,” interjected Graves. “That’s my pocket watch.”

Scamander looked up at Graves, startled, like he’d forgotten Graves was there. “Oh, terribly sorry,” he apologised. Two apologies in one day - and Graves felt like the man was only getting started. “Here. Edward takes very good care of what he steals, at the very least.” 

“That’s...good.” Graves took back his pocket watch, carefully tucking it back into his coat. It was a heirloom from his mother’s side, and one of the few things that Grindelward hadn’t touched. “What is that thing?”

“This,” grunted Newt, still busy dealing with the -- thing, “is a Niffler. His name is Edward. And he’s very, very sorry for taking your pocket watch.  _ Isn’t he? _ ”

The Niffler - Edward - turned to regard Graves inquisitively. It had a strange billed snout, like a duck, yet it was furred like an otter. Graves wasn’t sure what an apologetic expression would look like on its features, but he  _ was _ sure that its smug face was far from contrite. Little devil. 

Graves felt very tired, and his magically fortified home, with its warming charms, suddenly sounded very appealing. “Just -- try to keep him from doing anything illegal, will you?”

“Of course,” Scamander assured him. “Edward will be good as gold. Completely legal.”

 

***

Scamander seemed to have kept his word. For the next month of daily walks, Graves rarely saw Scamander. Every now and then he’d see the eccentric British wizard sitting by himself in Central Park (always with that large case of his on his knees, though, and who knew what that contained). 

“Scamander,” he greeted, a week after the incident Graves had taken to calling ‘This Is Why Magical Beasts Are Illegal in America, Scamander’. “How are you? And your creatures?” he adds belatedly.

“Wonderfully.” Today, Scamander’s eyes settled on his collar, fixating upon them like a drowning man grasped at straws. “And. Yourself?” He seemed to remember something the next second, however, and blushed a brilliant red. “Oh - I mean - of course - with Grindelward - uh, that is…” he spluttered. 

Graves tried not to sigh. “I’m well,” he said. “Healing well.” 

Scamander visibly deflated. “That’s good to hear,” he said sincerely. 

On a whim, Graves nodded at the empty seat beside Scamander on the park bench. “You saving that spot for anyone?”

“What?” Scamander looked to the side. “Oh - no, not at all.” He fiddled with his right sleeve, twisting the hem into Gordion loops and unwinding them. Twist, unwind. Twist, unwind. Graves wondered, absently, how often Scamander had to replace his coats. 

“I know that I must make you uncomfortable,” Graves finally said, after a minute of silently watching Scamander destroy threadwork. “I read in Goldstein’s reports that you duelled Grindelward while he was wearing my face. And. That he tortured you. With lightning whips.” Good job, Graves. Make the man relieve his experiences of torture. He rather expected Scamander to sidle off at this point, pleading prior appointments. 

Instead, Scamander just slumped a little. “I - it’s not so much that,” he prevaricated. Twist, unwind went the coat. “You - well - I’m just not very good with people. You’ve done nothing wrong, I assure you. What Grindelward did wearing your face has no bearing on who you are.”

Graves stared at him. Here was a man who had undergone torture at the hands of someone who had  _ looked just like Graves _ \- and now he simply sat next to Graves, as if the lightning whips hadn’t hit him, as if his creatures hadn’t been threatened (yes, Graves had read the  _ entire _ report), and as if he  _ hadn’t almost died _ . 

And, despite the lingering pain in his knee and ribs and the weariness that came from screaming oneself awake with nightmares, he felt lighter. 

“You’re quite something,” Graves finally said. “Thank you, Mr Scamander.”

Scamander tilted his head, and regarded Graves’ left ear. 

“Whatever are you thanking me for?”

Graves laughed, and it felt real. “Nevermind, Mr Scamander. And -” was he really doing this? “Call me Percival.”

“Percival.” Scamander smiled. “That’s a very nice name. Ah. You may. Call me Newt. If you would like?” he said cautiously, glancing up at Graves through his fringe. 

“Newt.” Percival gently clapped the other man on the shoulder. “It’s a pleasure to meet you.”

 

***

 

“Terribly sorry!” Scamander panted as he skidded into Graves’ office. “Oh!”

Graves barely glanced up from his paperwork. “He didn’t do anything terribly illegal, if that’s what you’re about to ask.” He finished up another document, sending it off with a wave, before finally looking up to see Newt hovering uncertainly in the doorway. “Well, take a seat Newt. I’m not going to arrest you.” With another wave of his hand he transformed one of the guest chairs into a more comfortable lounge chair and gestured to it expectantly.  

“Uhm. Of course not,” Newt said, hurriedly scurrying forward to claim his chair while still staring at the niffler draped over Graves’ left arm. “I’m just. Surprised to see MACUSA still standing.” 

Graves drily looked down at where Edward still snored away, furry little body rumbling. His left arm was beginning to feel rather numb. 

“That makes two of us,” he commented. “I caught Edward just as he was eyeing up the President’s jewelled wrap.” At Newt’s look of dawning horror he bit back a smile. “Don’t worry, she’s secretly fond of him.”

“I’m so, so sorry,” said Newt, beet red. “He’s - well, nifflers are naturally kleptomaniacs, but Edward seems to take it to an extreme. He’s been with me since he was young, you see. I rescued him from a hunters’ trap in Wales. And he’s just never developed the self-preservation instincts that nifflers normally have, which usually stops them from going after dangerous targets.”

Graves tried to imagine informing Piquery that she was one of the aforementioned ‘dangerous targets’, and grinned. “Don’t worry,” he repeated, for all the good it did for Newt, worrier-extraordinaire. “MACUSA’s a bit less hostile to creatures now - the brochure you wrote for us last month was very informative.” 

“You really think so?” Newt perked up. “I’m glad! Most creatures are really very friendly if you know how to deal with them. Sometimes we’re just a little too trigger-happy when it comes to things we don’t understand. Um. Not that. MACUSA’s peoples are trigger-happy.” He ducked his head a little, busying himself with taking Edward into his arms. The niffler yawned, snorted sleepily a little before going back to snoring, this time in Newt’s lap.

Trigger happy. Very much a No-Maj term, yet oddly fitting. 

Graves watched Newt fuss over Edward for a while. “Newt.” 

“Hmm?” Newt looked up. 

“I hear MACUSA’s got an empty spot open for a consultant. For magical beasts and creatures.” 

“Oh, that’s nice,” Newt commented, going back to gently petting Edward. “I do hope you find a good candidate.”

His eyes were going to roll so hard, they were going to roll right out of his head. “ _ I mean _ . Newt. Would you like to be our magical beasts and creatures consultant?”

“Oh!” Newt sat up fractionally straighter. “Um. Yes?”

“Good,” Graves said, sending the thick sheaf of documents that he and Piquery had prepared earlier through the air. It landed with a dull thump in front of Newt, who stared at it with a vague look of doom. “Paperwork,” explained Graves with a relish. “That’s your contract.” 

Hesistantly, the other man shifted closer to thumb through the pages. “This seems -- a bit much, don’t you think? Couldn’t I just come in whenever I was needed, and all that?” 

Ahh, the joys of being newly initiated into bureaucracy. Graves grinned. “Welcome to MACUSA, Mr Scamander.” 

 

***

 

Despite the odds, the months passed and Graves healed. 

Physically, at least. 

Bone breaks and fractures mended, burn scars faded away, even the occasional tremors in his hands had lessened in their severity and frequency. But still, the nights saw him tossing and turning in bed, only to fall into a fitful sleep that he inevitably woke from, screaming. He’d taken to dragging himself into work at hours that became earlier and earlier, for lack of anything better to do.

“Percival?” 

“Hrm? Morning.” He looked up from his paperwork, right into the gaze of one Newt Scamander. Pickett waved cheerily from one of his bright blue lapels.

Newt frowned. “When was the last time you slept?” he asked, unusually direct. 

“Last night.” Technically it was true, even. 

The furrow in Newt’s brow only deepened. “You don’t look terribly well.” 

Graves silently raised an eyebrow and bit back a grin when Newt immediately flushed, realising the way his words could be construed. 

“I mean,” Newt said, flustered. “You look. Tired. Like you haven’t had nearly enough sleep lately.” 

_ I’m fine _ , is what Graves opened his mouth to say, before he caught sight of the way Newt had hunched in on himself, almost unconsciously, as if preempting a barrage of verbal insults simply for caring for others. Graves remembered the younger Goldstein sister, Queenie, mentioning something about troubled pasts at Hogwarts. 

“I’ve been -- having trouble,” Graves admitted, something painful in his chest unclenching a little when Newt looked back up at him, face clearing. “I have nightmares.” 

“Nightmares?” Newt bit his lip. “I-I think may have something for it.” 

Graves forced himself to meet Newt’s eyes. “Really?” 

“Really,” Newt replied, opening his suitcase there and then in the middle of Graves’ office and starting down the ladder. “Be back in a tic!”

“...is it legal?” Graves called after him, rather belatedly. 

“Of course it is,” Newt called back distractedly. “I’m not daft.”

What was that supposed to mean? Graves’ eyes narrowed. “Newt, we’ve talked about the contraband.” 

“So we have,” came the cheery response. 

“ _ And? _ ” 

Newt popped back out of his staircase, a vial of something blue-ish clamped between his teeth. As Graves watched, he took the vial from his teeth and held it out to Graves with a flourish and a mischievous smile from behind his fringe. “Completely legal, I assure you.” 

Warily, Graves reached out and took it, trying to ignore the way his fingers tingled where they brushed Newt’s. “What is it?”

“Highly diluted Swooping Evil venom,” Newt said. “I’ve experimented with it. Combined with some Fwooper mucus, it forms an effective sedative. Taken in small doses it shouldn’t be addictive.” 

Graves eyed the vial. “I’ve never heard of Swooping Evil venom being used like this.”

“Oh! That’d be because it hasn’t been.” 

“Then -” Graves stopped, looking between the vial and Newt’s cheeky smile. “This is legal because it hasn’t been deemed illegal yet, is that right?” 

Newt ducked his head, still grinning like a loon at his manipulation of legal technicalities. “Well. That is the definition of legal. And. At any rate, the stuff is perfectly safe. It has a lot of potential in the Healing field. Won’t you try it?” This last part is said with a shy grin, eyes meeting Graves’ briefly up through a fine fringe of eyelashes. 

Unbelievable. And yet - “Newt,” Graves said, trying to be stern but failing miserably. At the slight drooping of Newt’s shoulders, he gave up. “Thank you.”

The smile Newt gave him left Graves shamefully breathless. 

 

***

 

Graves endeavoured to be honest with himself, if only because life was too short to engage in the mental acrobatics required to lie to oneself.

And so he knew, in that moment, that he was going to make Newt smile like that again if it killed Graves.

 

***

 

Operation: Make Newt Happy didn’t start off well. 

“Oh,  _ honey _ ,” Queenie Goldstein said, halfway through Day 1 of Operation MNH. She set down a tray of coffee and cookies, and sat herself down in Newt’s guest chair. “That’s so sweet!”

Graves froze, coffee cup midway to his lips. “What?” 

Queenie gave him a delighted look. “You want to make Newt happy! And to give him things to smile about! That’s lovely, Newt’s such a wonderful soul.” 

Graves put down his cup, hastily shoring up his barriers and giving Newt’s suitcase, which lay innocuously open on the floor, a wary glance. “What have I said about reading my mind, Goldstein?”

“To not,” she said glibly. “But I wasn’t just then, you were pretty much shouting them at me. And to any other Legilimens within a 3-mile radius, I suspect.”

How utterly embarrassing. Graves resisted the urge to slide down in his chair. 

“Don’t worry,” Queenie said kindly. “I’m sure Newt will be very happy. After all, he’s very fond of you as well.” 

“Really?” Graves said eagerly, before dignity kicked in. He coughed, and straightened up in his chair. “I mean - wait, what do  _ you _ mean by ‘as well’?”

Queenie gave him a long look, and he mentally bolstered his shields again. “Only that you seem very fond of him,” she said eventually. Her voice was very gentle, and Graves should’ve chafed at the kid-gloves treatment but he didn’t. “There’s nothing wrong with being fond of him. He’s very easy to love.”

Graves sighed. “He -- is,” he admitted - quietly, so that it wouldn’t carry down into the suitcase where Newt was working. “He’s been very kind to me.” 

There had been the relief from nightmares, for starters. He had been vaguely concerned about the mysterious blue stuff in the vial, but after a lengthy lecture from Newt regarding proper scientific technique and hypotheses and variables and such, he’d felt assured enough to take a small dose one night. 

That night, he’d slept soundly and dreamlessly, and the next morning, when he’d woken up, it had been to the kind of refreshed feeling he hadn’t felt in years. With the judicious application of the Newt’s remedy, he’d managed a solid seven hours of sleep a night for the past week.  

And Graves still hadn’t managed to bring that smile to Newt’s face again. 

“You know-” Queenie’s voice broke into his thoughts. “I think making Newt happy a lot easier than you’d think.”

“That’s really not -” Graves sighed. “I know it is, it’s just - he deserves more than just the ‘easy’ solution.” 

The look Queenie gave him was very kind. “Oh honey,” she said again. “You have it bad.” 

“What do you have bad?” Newt poked his head out of the suitcase. “Oh, hullo Queenie. Percy, are you ill?” 

_ Percy? _ Queenie mouthed at him with a huge grin. Graves ignored her. 

“I’m fine,” he assured Newt. “Queenie was talking about the...working. Bug. The desire to work a lot.” 

Queenie delicately snorted into a handkerchief.

“Oh.” Newt clambered the rest of the way out, and brushed off his waistcoat. “Well, you do have a tendency to work entirely too much. Queenie’s right. You should listen to her.” 

“You hear that?” Queenie said, looking far too self-satisfied. “You  _ should  _ listen to me.” 

Newt nodded along, the barely hidden subtext of Queenie’s words flying right over his head like a Swooping Evil. “Queenie gives very good advice,” he informed Graves earnestly. The sunlight streaming in through the windows seemed to catch onto some light within him, refracting and making him glow even brighter. 

Graves swallowed and looked away. 

“I know,” Graves said, trying not to grit his teeth at the way Queenie was unsubtly snickering into her cup of coffee. “She’s also very busy right now. Would you look at the time.”

Clearly taking pity on him, Queenie winked at him as she rose. “I’ll see you for lunch, hun,” she told Newt, who nodded and waved happily as she left. After the door had shut behind the trailing tassels of Queenie’s dress, Newt reclaimed his chair. 

“What are you working on today?” he asked, leaning forward to spread his own papers across the half they’d wordlessly designated Newt’s half. Technically Newt had his own office somewhere in MACUSA, but he claimed that Graves’ office had more sunlight and was ‘just nicer, Percival -- unless, you. Ah. Didn’t want me to stay here?’ 

Graves, in the face of the slightly defeated slump to Newt’s shoulders, had all but dragged Newt back into his chair, and that had been that. 

“I’m working on a new case,” Graves commented, shaking out the report he’d been reading. “Fairly high profile. There’s been a spate of killings lately, and every new clue’s been absolutely no help whatsoever.” 

It was like building a puzzle with an incomplete set, except the image being built was changing with every new piece unearthed from under the carpet. 

“That’s strange.” Newt frowned, and Graves handed over the report without a word. 

A few minutes ticked by with Newt reading the report and Graves trying not to stare at the way Newt bit his lip in concentration. Eventually, he looked up and Graves hastily dropped his gaze back down to the parchment in front of him. 

“Fascinating,” Newt said, evidently not noticing anything amiss if the way he was already half inside his suitcase was any indicator. 

“Is it a beast?” Graves asked, heart sinking. Why. Why was it always a beast. 

“I believe so,” Newt replied, climbing back out again, a sheaf of notes in hand. “Ah - there we go, a tebo. Invisibility - that’d explain the lack of witnesses. Horns - the stab marks -”

“The tufts of brown hair,” Graves realised. “Forensics told me they were from a  _ cat _ .”

Newt snorted. “I’m not surprised. Their DNA is really -- quite similar. The tebos are fairly close cousins of kneazles, which in turn, are very closely related to the domesticated No-Maj feline.” Then he stopped, and stared at Graves with surprise. “I -- you’re familiar with tebos?” 

“Ah - yes,” Graves said, as if Newt’s book hadn’t been sitting on his bedside for weeks now. He picked up a quill to begin writing a memo to summon his senior aurors to a meeting. After a moment, he glanced up to see Newt still staring, papers absently clutched in his hands. “What?”

“I -- you -” Newt started, then visibly took a calming breath. “You know about creatures!”

“I do.” After all, MACUSA did have a serious issue with the smuggling of magical creatures and beasts. It was only logical to brush up on his knowledge. 

“You’d be surprised at how little most of the magical community know about them,” he murmured, but when he looked back up at Graves he was smiling - a small thing, but still capable of taking Graves’ breath away like the weak, weak wizard he was. “I’m glad you know about them.” 

“I’m glad, too,” Graves said.  _ Because it made you smile  _ went unsaid, caught at the tip of his tongue by Graves’ inhibitions. Too much, too soon, he thought. 

Instead, he finished off his memo and sent it off, before turning to Newt. “I’ve called a meeting for 2 o’clock sharp,” he said. “In the meantime. What would you like for lunch?”

 

***

 

Officially, the day went down on record as an unfortunate accident, one that likely would’ve been preventable had Graves been wearing some dragonhide armour, or on some Pepper-Up potion to give him that extra edge of speed. 

Unofficially, it went down as The Day Newt Scamander Lost His Marbles (‘terribly sorry about the damage, Madam President’). 

Graves had taken Newt to the local grocery store, to pick up some fresh new fruit and vegetables for his creatures, and then the delicatessen for some food for themselves. Diana and her siblings were shooed away many a time, and eventually Graves surrendered more than half a sandwich to their winsome gazes. 

Just as the final crumbs were brushed off into waiting mouths, Goldstein came bursting through the doors.

“Mister Graves, sir!” she panted, before noticing Newt. “Oh, Newt! Didn’t know you were here.” 

Newt waved cheerily, and Graves bit back what undoubtedly would’ve been an unacceptably sappy smile. 

“What is it, Goldstein?” 

She snapped back into auror-mode so quickly he feared for her spine. “There’s been a breakthrough on the Reuters Case. We’re assembling the senior aurors now.” 

“Didn’t I send a memo on that?” Graves stood up, brushing off his uniform to delighted chirps. He quelled the twitching of Goldstein’s mouth with a stern look. “I need to debrief you all before we leave. There’s been a change in circumstances.”

“Sir?”

“The source of the attacks is a beast,” Graves explained, sending papers flying into their folders and back into their shelves. “Newt figured it out.” Speaking of which. “Newt, it’s probably best if you sat this one out.” 

Newt didn’t stop herding the creatures back into his case. “And yet,” he said mildly, “my job  _ is _ MACUSA’s consultant for magical beasts and creatures. Including for the Department of Magical Law Enforcement.” At Graves’ glower he grinned cheekily from behind his fringe. “I did read the paperwork.” 

Out of the corner of his eye he could see Goldstein watching them with a look of avid fascination. “Fine,” he huffed. “Just. Don’t do anything...”

“Illegal?” 

“Yes.” Graves resisted the urge to throw his hands in the air in frustration. “Exactly that. Nothing illegal. Nothing reckless. Nothing that’ll get you hurt. Understood?”

“Understood,” Newt replied, checking the latches of his suitcase innocently. He followed them out the door and to the bullpen in an unusually docile manner, presumably to make up for the sass beforehand. All throughout the debriefing he dutifully took notes and gave the senior aurors a quick lecture on the best way to subdue a tebo. 

“What’s a tebo?” Abernathy had asked. 

“Well, it’s very genetically similar to a kneazle,” Newt explained, and Graves could practically see the danger rating go down in Abernathy’s head. 

Which was ridiculous. Because. They had a XXXX Ministry of Magic rating for a  _ reason _ . 

“It looks like warthog,” Graves had interjected. “Only. It can make itself invisible. And its hide is virtually impenetrable. And it’s very, very fast.” 

There was a moment of silence as this sunk in. Graves tried not to preen at the way Newt stared at him in open surprise. 

“Oh,” Abernathy said weakly. “And. They’re. Related to kneazles?” 

“It is!” Newt said excitedly. “They’re actually remarkably friendly.” 

Abernathy looked like he was about to be ill. “Oh. That’s nice,” he said faintly. Graves remembered hearing something about plans for gifting a kneazle to his newest niece, and bit back a grin. 

Graves looked at his pocket watch. “Alright, debrief over. Move out, aurors!” 

They filed out to the Apparition Point, apparating in pairs for safety. Before Graves went to take point, he quickly pulled Newt aside.

“Newt,” he said quietly. “This’ll probably be dangerous. Grindelward’s been connected to the attacks.” 

Newt looked at Graves calmly. “Director Graves,” he said, somewhat frostily. “I do appreciate the concern, but. I’m also perfectly capable of taking care of myself. I do. Well. Work with sometimes dangerous beasts as a career.”

Graves pulled back. “I didn’t mean you were inept,” he said, stung. “I just-”

“Yo Graves!” Jordan hollered from the front of the line. “You gonna take point or what?” 

“I’m  _ coming _ ,” Graves said, before turning back to Newt and lowering his voice. “Just -- take care. Please.”

Newt’s eyes softened a little. “Alright. You too.” 

Satisfied that he’d averted the potential crisis  _ and _ managed to get Newt to not go charging into dangerous situations headfast, he went off to lead the mission. 

That was, in hindsight, his first mistake. 

 

***

 

The mission began in a fairly standard way. Graves had apparated, sent through the signal for the rest of his aurors to come through - one at a time, until only Newt was left. 

“Alright,” he said, once they had all assembled around him. Their target was the frankly seedy-looking warehouse that stood in partial ruin behind them in clear sight.  

“Golstein, you and Jordan take the back door. Fontaine and Abernathy, take the left. Higgins and Eisenhower, secure the parameter. Drew, Barty, with Newt on the right. I’ll go through the front with Collins here. We’re going for the element of surprise and we’re all going home tonight, so no heroics. Any questions?” 

There were none, and they all set off. Graves was still somewhat uneasy about Newt being on the mission, but Drew and Barty were perfectly capable aurors - and Heaven knew Drew could cut down Grindelward’s followers faster than they could blink. 

Graves had just dissembled the wards on the front door, with Collins watching his back, when a klaxon began to blare. 

“ _ What the hell _ ,” he gritted out - so much for the element of surprise. He blasted the doors open. “Collins!”

“Not sure who triggered the alarm, sir. On your nine!” 

Graves spun and threw a  _ diffendo _ and  _ incarcerous _ in quick succession, catching out the figures who make a jump out of the way of falling timber beams. 

“Move in!” he shouted, casting a  _ sonorous  _ on himself. The warehouse had quickly turned into a free-for-all on both sides that he was in the thick of. He desperately hoped Newt had stayed out of the worst of it, focussing on finding the tebo and then  _ getting the hell out _ . 

Suddenly, there was a resounding boom somewhere in the right of the complex.  _ Newt _ .

“Fuck!” swore Collins, stumbling and narrowly missing a curse to the chest. “The fuck was that?!”

Graves opened his mouth to speak when another explosion sent them all sprawling, auror and dark wizard alike. 

“It’s coming from the right side,” he ground out, quickly stunning and binding the other wizards while they’re down. “We need to move - the whole place might be rigged to blow!”

They made it to the right wing, only to find chaos. With Newt at the centre of it. 

Of  _ fucking _ course. 

“You take left, I take right?” he asked Collins, who nodded and set off with a determined expression on her pale face. 

Graves made a beeline for Newt, who stood with his back to most of the firefight. Inside the cage was the tebo - malnourished, flickering in and out of invisibility, but looking no less dangerous for it. 

“Newt,” he got out, ducking a curse and deflecting another. “You need to get out of here!” 

“Hush,” Newt said, eyes focussed on the tebo, which beat its hooves against the cage floor restlessly. “Steady now,” he crooned at the tebo. “Come now, will you let me help you?” 

“Newt,” Graves started warningly, but broke off to quickly raise a shield. Several curses slammed into it seconds later. “ _ Seriously _ .” 

“If you need to leave, then leave,” Newt replied, voice low so as to not agitate the tebo, but no less stubborn for it. “I’m not leaving until he’s safely in my case. D’you have any idea how poorly treated he’s been?”

“No,” Graves admitted. “But I’m a lot more concerned about how dead you’re going to be, very soon. There are bombs in this place.” 

“Oh, those?” Newt held out a bit of grass he’d fished from one of his coat’s inside pockets. “You don’t need to worry about those. I set them off.”

“You-” Graves viciously stunned another wizard. “That was  _ you? _ ” 

“Fwooper mucus,” Newt said serenely, almost cheerfully as the tebo moved forward to accept his tithes. “Highly explosive when exposed to magical activity.” 

Graves was going to kill Newt. He was going to kill Newt, then revive him, then ship him back to England for  _ the sake of everyone’s sanity _ . And Newt’s life, but that went without saying. 

He turned and opened his mouth to say so, but there was a very loud bang and a jet of violent orange light squarely aimed at Newt’s unprotected back, and he was diving in the way between the two; the world became very loud, and painful, and all he could see was Newt, his face pale and mouth moving wildly. 

_ I think I might’ve done something really stupid _ , he wanted to say,  but the strength failed him, and then, thankfully, he passed out. 

 

***

 

When Graves woke up in New York’s Magical Emergency Ward, he wished he’d died in the warehouse.

“Argh,” he managed, trying and failing to raise himself on his elbows. His body felt like it was on fire. Maybe he was on fire. 

A gentle hand brought a cup of cool water to his lips, another at the back of his neck, and he drank greedily. After downing three cups this way, he felt a whole lot better and ready to face the man who sat beside him. 

“How are you feeling?” Newt asked quietly. 

Graves swallowed. “Like I’ve been hit with a highly experimental, definitely illegal dark curse,” he rasped. “How - was the raid successful?”

Newt’s face was pinched. “It was - your aurors managed to capture most of Grindelward’s supporters. Only one, that they know of, got away. And. The only casualty was you.” 

Graves let his head fall back onto his pillow in relief. “That’s good.”

“That’s ‘ _ good _ ’?” Newt snapped. “You, diving in to intercept a spell meant for me is ‘ _ good _ ’?” 

“There wasn’t any time to warn you,” Graves protested, coughing a little at the end. Newt helped him drink another cup, his hands no less gentle despite the way he was clearly seething. 

“You need to stop trying to protect me,” Newt said, a little more softly. “I told you before - I’m perfectly capable of protecting myself. I realise that I haven’t quite the reputation my brother has, but he does teach me things, you know - and I’ve learnt the rest out of necessity on my travels. I’m not helpless.” 

Graves deflated a little. “I just. You’re important.”  _ To me _ . 

The thought scared him a lot less than it once would’ve.

“And you aren’t?” Newt shook his head. “You’re the Director of Magical Law Enforcement.  _ You’re _ important to the entirety of America’s magical community.”

And. Graves knew this. He did. Just as how he knew Newt was no less capable than any of his senior aurors. 

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, deciding it was a safe bet. “I’m sorry for implying you were weak. You’re not. Far from it, actually.”

Newt stilled, then sighed, reaching out to take one of Graves’ hands between both of his own. “Percy,” he said softly. “Do you really think it’s about that? I mean - I’ll admit that it was a little disheartening, but that’s not it. This,” he said, shushing Graves when he moved to speak. “This is about you, sacrificing yourself for me. You mustn’t do that, anymore. Will you promise me that?”

Graves mouth felt very dry, despite the four glasses of water he’d just drunk. “I -- can’t,” he whispered. “If you’re ever in danger, I can’t just -- stand by and, what - watch? As you get hurt? Die? When I can do something about it? There’s no way, Newt. No way.” 

The hands around his clenched, and Graves risked a glance up. Newt’s eyes were very, very green, and - to his horror - slightly damp. 

“I -” Graves started, dismayed. “Please -- don’t cry?” 

“You absolute fool,” Newt sniffed, before burying his face in Graves’ hospital gown-clad shoulder. “Fine. Do what you want. You’re not allowed to complain if I do the same for you, then.” 

Not exactly an acceptable compromise, but it was definitely going to be the best deal Graves was getting. “Alright,” he said, carefully lowering his free hand to tentatively card through Newt’s hair. “Is this alright?” he asked quietly. 

“Yes,” Newt murmured, and they lay there in comfortable silence for a while until Newt shifted a little, and said, quietly: “Please don’t get angry…”

Having been almost lulled asleep at this point, Graves startled back into full-consciousness. “What did you do,” he mutters groggily. 

“Well.” Newt fidgeted with the bedsheets. “I may have. Blown up. The warehouse?”

 

***

 

There was a change in the air after The Incident. Not anything drastic, and certainly not anything concerning - but slowly, surely, things had begun to shift. 

The first recognisable indication came one Friday afternoon after The Incident. He and Newt were finishing up for the afternoon, quills quietly scratching against parchment, and Graves had just taken a sip of coffee, setting down the cup carefully and looking up to catch the tail end of Newt’s stare. 

“Something on my face?” Graves asked. 

“Ah - no,” Newt replied, cheeks flushed for some reason.

Graves eyed him, but he looked no more nefarious than he always did - that is, as nefarious as a particularly good-natured kneazle. “Alright then,” Graves shrugged. “But if I find a moustache spelled onto my face when I go to the bathroom we’re going to be having words, Newt.” 

Newt huffed. “Honestly, Percy - there’s nothing on your face. It’s…” and here he broke off into coughs. 

“It’s what?” Graves frowned. Newt muttered something unintelligible under his breath. “What were you going to say about my face?” 

“ _ Nothing _ ,” Newt repeated emphatically, gathering his case to his chest and standing up abruptly. “I. Ah. Just remembered I had a meeting with Auror Goldstein.”

Graves eyed his rapidly retreating back. “Auror Goldstein’s on leave.”

“Did I say Auror Goldstein?” Newt called back hurriedly. “I meant Queenie Goldstein. Urgent meeting. Very important.” 

“Queenie’s -” the door closed softly behind Newt. “- also on leave. With Tina,” Graves finished. Huh. Well. 

Maybe he really did need to talk to Queenie. 

 

***

 

That hadn’t been the end of it. 

In the weeks and months after The Incident, the incidence rate of Newt turning a brilliant tomato red and rapidly fleeing through the nearest exit increased infinitely. Because the previous incidence rate had been  _ zero _ . 

One time, Graves had helped Newt adjust his tie prior to an important meeting. Newt had gone an alarming shade of puce, before, as was becoming customary, turning heel and booking it out the door.

He would never tell anyone, but he’d surreptitiously sniffed himself after that time. 

At first it had been vaguely amusing to see Newt turn increasingly vibrant shades of colour. By the fifth time, though, a trickle of doubt had begun to worm its way into his mind. 

“What’s up with Newt?” Graves asked Tina one afternoon after it had happened yet again, with Newt almost falling on his face in his haste to get out of Graves’ office.

Tina looked up at him from the report they’d been poring over, blinking owlishly. They were working on yet another difficult case. Tina had begun to vibrate with the kind of manic energy only too much coffee could bring. Meanwhile, Graves’ hair had taken on a distinctly un-coiffed look from constantly running his hands through it with frustration. 

“What?” asked Tina, still blinking. 

“Newt,” Graves enunciated. “What’s wrong with him.”

“What do you mean, what’s wrong with him?” 

“He keeps -” Graves waved a hand in the air, trying to encompass all the strange behaviour. “-being strange.”

“Newt. Strange.” 

“Hey,” Graves protested automatically, then rethought his statement. “Well. Okay. Stranger than normal, then.”

“Huh.” Tina tilted her head. “I can’t say I’ve noticed anything different recently. What’s he been doing?”

“He - goes all red?” Graves cringed as he realised how insane that sounded, but soldiered on. “And then he runs off.”  _ And I’m starting to think I’ve done something wrong.  _

“He goes red and then runs off,” Tina repeated, still looking bewildered. “What’s making him go red, then?”

Graves thought about it, mentally reviewing cases and coming up with one, glaringly obvious, common theme.  “...me?”

Tina stilled, taking this in. “Let me get this straight. Newt has been going really red, because of you, and then running off for no clear reasons?” Graves nodded, wary of the toothy grin spreading across her face. “You’re an idiot, Graves.” 

Graves scowled, grabbing his coffee. “Watch it. I’m still your superior, Goldstein.”

Tina grinned wider. “You’re an idiot,  _ sir _ . Newt’s obviously sweet on you. How did you not notice?”

He spat out his mouthful all over his paperwork. “He’s  _ what _ ?” he managed, saving his paperwork with a flick of his fingers. “What are  _ you on about _ , Goldstein.”

For that, he received an incredibly insubordinate eye roll. “Sir, I’m not sure how to explain feelings to you, other than: Newt has  _ feelings for you _ .” 

Graves tried to parse her words. His head spun. Newt. Had -- what?  _ Feelings _ , for him, Graves? 

This couldn’t be true. Tina had clearly gone insane, because the alternative was that  _ Graves _ had gone insane and hallucinated Tina saying that. 

His expressions were clearly telegraphed across his face (which - shameful), because Tina took one look at his face and sighed.

“Sir - Percival,” she said. “Maybe you should ask Newt about it. About the, ah, strange behaviour.” 

“You know what?” murmured Graves, still half-lost in thought. “That’s a good idea.”

 

***

 

It all came to head a week after the talk with Tina - due to sandwiches, of all prosaic things. 

In that time, Graves had studiously ignored Tina’s advice, clinging to the comforting familiarity of his friendship with Newt. It was - perchance - not strictly in keeping with his philosophy of self-honesty, and yet. Graves found that he didn’t quite care if it meant he could still have this time with Newt, with his lovely smiles and gentle hands and passion for beasts and creatures. 

“This sandwich is really rather tasty,” Newt mumbled around his mouthful of pickled vegetables and egg. He had the oddest of tastes in sandwiches, Graves had discovered, and had long since gotten over his initial revulsion. 

“Is it?” Graves said, after swallowing his own mouthful. Around his neck, Diana munched happily on her own slice of beef from his sandwich. “Oh, you have something - on your mouth.” 

“Where?” Newt asked, dabbing at his lips with a napkin, missing the white stain of what was presumably mayonnaise. 

“No, not that side.” Graves pointed. “The other - yes, to the side - no, oh for -- give it here.” He swiped the napkin from Newt’s hands and leaned in, gently taking Newt’s chin in hand as he wiped away the smear. “There.” 

He abruptly became aware of the heat along his outer thigh where it was pressed into Newt’s, the soft puffs of breath on his fingers that still lingered on his chin and lips, and the way Newt had gone a rather fetching shade of pink, presumably from the heat, but hadn’t moved an inch away. 

He was, Graves noted with absolutely no hysteria, leaning  _ in _ ever so slightly. 

Do  _ something _ , he told himself sternly, but with no executive order from his higher thought processes, his body acted on instinct and desire. Distantly, he noted that Diana had at some point made off with the rest of his sandwich.

“Perciv - oh!” 

That broke the spell. The two of them jerked apart immediately, with Newt almost careening right off the sofa. 

“Queenie,” Graves said politely, fortifying his mental shields quickly while hauling Newt back onto the sofa. Queenie looked back and forth between them, her smile almost effervescent. “How nice to see you.”

“Yes, it’s been too long,” Newt agreed. He sounded slightly out of breath, and Graves didn’t dare look in his direction. 

Queenie gave Newt a quizzical look. “You came for dinner last night,” she pointed out.

Newt flushed. “Ah. Yes. So we did.” 

“Was there anything we could help you with?” Graves asked, trying to sound solicitous and not at all like his heart was attempting to mimic a graphorn herd in his chest. 

Queenie brightened even more. “Oh! Teenie wanted to ask Newt some questions,” she said. “Anytime you’re free.”

“I’ll go now,” Newt said, hurrying to grab his case and straightening his waistcoat. “Um. Thank you very much. For the lunch. And. The help.” His cheeks went even redder, and Graves made a mental note to tell him to see a doctor about that. 

Queenie was onto him as soon as the door clicked shut behind Newt. 

“Were you two-” she began excitedly, then lowered her voice for a modicum of propriety. “- are you and Newt  _ stepping out? _ ” 

Graves slumped back against the sofa in defeat, thinking longingly of his liquor cabinet at home. “ _ No _ , Queenie,” he said quellingly, hoping that the  _ if only _ went unsaid and unheard. 

“You haven’t told him yet?” Queenie said, surprised. “I woulda thought - after The Incident - that you’d have swapped dramatic confessions, and then there would have been passionate kisses that scandalised the nurses.”

“That’s -- oddly specific,” Graves said. “You’ve been reading Abernathy’s romance novels again, haven’t you? I thought Tina warned you off that trash.”

Queenie didn’t even look remotely abashed. “He leaves them lying around,” she shrugged. “Plus, there ain’t a lot of other things to read in between running errands for you folks.”

That was...true. Graves sighed. “Queenie, why are you really here?”

Queenie’s eyes twinkled. “I heard the queerest thing from Teenie,” she said, sitting in a guest chair - not Newt’s, he noted, with a shameful amount of satisfaction. “Something about denied feelings and epic romances. And. Newt acting strangely, hmm?” 

“Queenie.”

“Alright, alright,” she laughed. “Listen, honey. There’s not a lot I can say to convince you, I know. Mercy Lewis, that’s probably why you’re, well,  _ you _ . But,” she continued, quieter. “Newt has such a big heart. And. People are always easiest to read when they feel strongly about something -- or someone.” 

Graves didn’t meet her eyes. “I-” he said. He slumped in his chair, just for a second. “It’s just. Newt’s -- good. He’s just really, really good. And.” He stood up and paced to the window, filled with restless energy. “I don’t know if I deserve that,” he told the glass quietly. 

“You know,” Queenie said gently, from behind. “That’s probably why you  _ do _ deserve him. Because you’ll always be trying your best to make him happy, to show him that he’s loved. And. You won’t ever take him for granted.”

“I wouldn’t,” Graves said quietly. “But I guess -- truth is, I don’t know what I’d do if something happened to him. I can’t even lose him now, as a friend - if this became something bigger…”

“Do you think Newt feels any differently?” Queenie came up to stand beside him. “I heard about the debacle that happened, you know. He  _ blew up a warehouse _ after you got hit. Tina says she’d never seen him so angry.” 

Graves rolled his eyes. It had taken him a full day to get over that, a minor victory for his dignity - it usually took a minute at most. “Yes, and I expounded  _ at length _ why that was a Bad Idea. Mercy Lewis, you can’t go around blowing up warehouses on a passing fancy.” 

“That is, amazingly, not what I meant.” Queenie sighed. “ _ Percival _ . Would you really react any differently if you’d just seen Newt taken down in front of you?” 

Despite himself, the images filled his mind. Newt taking a dark curse, the  _ killing  _ curse to the chest. Newt falling, right in front of him. Newt, dead. He felt a creaking under his fingers, and hastily let go of the groaning window pane. 

“...no,” he admitted, a tad reluctantly. 

“And if something were to happen to him,” Queenie continued, gently probing. “Would you regret not telling him how you feel?”

“No,” Graves said. “Because I’d take anything Newt’s willing to give me.” He felt his heart stop at the sharp intake of breath behind him. 

_ Mercy Lewis give me strength _ , he thought, turning around to see Newt standing by the door, case in one hand. The other hand was clasped over his mouth, eyes wide. 

“Would you _ look _ at the time,” Queenie murmured, smiling beatifically at Graves’ glare. The door closed behind her with a soft  _ snick _ that sounded horribly loud in the deafening silence that filled his office. 

Newt was still staring at him. 

“Newt,” Graves said. Surreptitiously wiped his palms on his pants. “Ah. So.” Suck it up, Graves. “How much of that, ah, did you hear?”

Newt gently sent his case off to stand by the wall, before moving forward to stop within arm’s reach of Graves. “I heard enough,” Newt said. “I - I didn’t realise-”

He didn’t -  _ look _ angry about it. Graves tried not to plot an escape route out the window, and failed. “You weren’t meant to hear that, but, well…” he trailed off awkwardly. Newt’s expression remained frozen somewhere between horrified and shocked. Mission abort, he thought glumly. So much for  _ that _ , Queenie. “I’ll just -- give me some time, I’ll get over it. I think.” That was definitely a lie. 

Newt stilled. “Get over it?”

“That’s what’s best for you, right?” Graves said, carefully. “Newt, I know this is probably coming across really badly, what with your history with Leta, but I promise that I’m not trying to take advantage of you. You can forget you heard anything. We’ll go back to normal.”

His ramblings weren’t meant with a nod of approval, nor was it met with outright hostility. Graves waited, half wishing that Edward would pull off one of his daring escapes from the case and send MACUSA into uproar.

“You’ll -- get over what you feel for me?” Newt finally asked. 

Graves cringed. “I know - that’s probably not true,” he muttered. “But i’ll try. Just - give me time.”

“You have -- romantic feelings. For me. But you’ll try to forget them. Because - they make me uncomfortable?”

His throat was so dry. When had the air gotten so dry? He licked his lips and shut his eyes, missing the way Newt’s eyes tracked the movement. “Yes.” 

There was a rustling of clothes. Graves kept his eyes firmly shut, not wanting to see Newt walking away from him for the last time. Then, there was sigh and the smell of hay and apples, and - curious - Graves opened his eyes to see - 

“I’m not very sure how this is all done,” Newt said, standing - oh Mercy Lewis - so close. He was smiling, tentatively, as he reached out to gently take one of Graves’ hands in both of his. “But. I’m fairly certain you should have your eyes open.”

“For what?” Graves said, through numb lips. He wasn’t entirely sure if he was breathing. 

The corner of Newt’s lips quirked up in a beautiful, breathtaking smile that had Graves staring at him a little dumbly. “For this,” he said, and leaned in to brush his lips against Graves’. 

 

***

 

Valentines Day comes around far too soon for Graves’ liking. Granted, the bookings have been made, the ring is safely in his pocket, The Speech is somewhat ready, and about twenty alert charms have been set around their home and in Newt’s suitcase for about an hour before the reservation. 

He’s not dawdling at work, per se, he thinks as he sends the papers around his office shufflings themselves into order with a flick of his hand. He’s - well - 

“Are you dawdling at work?” Queenie’s voice floats into his office. When he looks up, she’s leaning against his doorframe, hat in hand. 

“No-o,” Graves says. Queenie smiles blandly and looks at the tea and coffee pots he’s set to cleaning themselves. “Okay, fine. Perhaps a little.” 

“Why, hun?” she asks, stepping forward and closing the door behind her. “You’ve been planning this for ages.”

“How did you-” Graves sighs. “Tina.”

“Tina,” Queenie agrees, grinning impishly. “She’s not a senior auror for nothing, you know.”

“I know.” Graves rolls his eyes, and impulsively checks his pocket again. “I’m going to leave soon, I promise. I’m just -” he snorts, “weighing up the merits of some liquid courage.”

Queenie gives him a  _ look _ . “Honestly,” she sighs, not quite grabbing his arm and hauling him out, but coming close. “You’d think you’re going off to battle, or something.  _ Relax _ . Tonight’s going to go fine, and then we’ll begin preparing for the wedding!”

Graves eyes her. “What if Newt  _ doesn’t _ say yes?” The rest of what he’s thinking is easily picked up by Queenie, whose eyes immediately soften.

“If he doesn’t,” she says, “then we’ll throw a condolences party. But. You should know that the probability of that happening is very, very low. I’ve seen the way Newt looks at you. Anyone who has, would agree with me.”

Graves feels the ring box like a dead weight, heavy in his pocket, and takes a deep breath. “Alright,” he says. “I’m gonna do this.”

With a fortifying hug from Queenie, Graves turns on his heel and apparates directly into the foyer of Le Petit Escargot, a French restaurant that, if the magical section of The New York Times is to be believed, is one of the most romantic places he can propose at without going out of New York. 

“Ah, Monsieur Graves,” says the maitre’d, a small French lady who is no less imposing for her height. “Your table is ready, come this way, come this way.”

He’s ushered through the tastefully decorated restaurant to his table - which is, as per his request, hidden from prying eyes by a set of lacquered screens. A glass of white wine is put into his hand, and he sips it gratefully while he waits for Newt. 

“I’m not late, am I?” 

Graves looks up, and then up again. Newt’s smiling, with a touch of self-consciousness that makes Graves want to do something highly inappropriate to wipe it away. 

“I was just early,” Grave says, standing and reaching out to take Newt’s hand. He gently kisses the back of it, and when he glances up, there’s a fond flush on Newt’s cheeks. 

“I’m glad,” Newt murmurs, turning their hands around so that their fingers entwine, and tugging Graves to take a seat once more. “I’d hate to be late after you went to all the trouble to set those charms.”

Graves chuckles. “That’d be pretty tragic,” he says. “But. It would be funny to see you dashing into the restaurant, dress-robes half on.” At Newt’s pout, he can’t help but lean in to steal a kiss, that turns into a second, then a third. They only break apart at a polite cough. 

“Ah, apologies,” the waiter says, eyes politely averted. “Would you like to order?” 

“The tarte flambée, please,” Graves says. “And another glass of your white wine. It was delicious.”

Newt smiles. “And a romulo yanes, for myself, thank you.”

They chat throughout their entrées, laugh through their mains, and - finally - the dishes are cleared away, and their desserts are being brought out, and Graves feels like he’s simultaneously had far too much and  _ not nearly enough _ alcohol to do this. 

Newt’s in the midst of expounding upon the finer points of Erumpet mating habits, when, suddenly, he’s sliding to kneel beside Graves, and then there’s a box in his hand, and there’s a ring -

_ What the fuck _ , one half of him screams. 

_ Oh my God _ , screams the other half. Neither half is particularly helpful, so Graves ignores both of them. Distantly, he notes that The Speech has fled his mind, along with his other higher thought processes.

“Percy,” Newt says, looking up at him with very wide, green eyes that Graves has always loved to look at in their quiet moments together, mapping out the threads of gold and flecks of amber in them. “Percival Graves, will you marry me?”

Graves blinks. Stares. Blinks some more. He’s only roused from inaction when Newt begins to look uncertain, and Graves can’t have that from his -  _ fiancé.  _

“Yes,” Graves blurts out. “Yes. Yes. Oh my God. Of course I’ll marry you.” He hauls Newt up, and into his lap, and has barely the presence of mind to fling out some silencing charms. 

“Wait,” gasps Newt, fumbling with the box. “I should - You should put this on.” 

Graves stops, remembering. “Wait,” he says himself, and then he’s diving to dig out his own ring box. The look on Newt’s face is one he’ll cherish forever - equal parts bemused, and delighted.

“Mister Scamander,” he says, playfully. “Would you do me the honour of becoming my husband, ‘til death do us apart?” 

“It would be my pleasure,” Newt says, eyes twinkling as he gently accepts the ring that Graves slides onto his finger. They stare, for a moment, at the matching bands on their hands. “Percy-”

“Mm?” Graves lifted his head from where he’d rested it against Newt’s shoulder. 

Newt’s eyes are very soft in the candlelight as he leans in, very close to Graves’ ear to murmur: “I love you.”

 

***

 

Tina bursts into his office as soon as he’s settled. Graves knows he’s got a dopey expression, and that he’s moving exceptionally slowly, still a little drunk on happiness (and nursing a bit of hangover from the, ah, liquid courage). 

“How’d it go? Did he - oh!” she gasps, when Graves wordlessly holds up his hand. 

“I knew it was going to be so romantic,” she gushes, flopping down into the spare guest chair with a very uncharacteristic sigh.

“The strangest thing, though,” muses Graves, eyeing her carefully, “was that Newt proposed before me. With matching rings.”

Tina looks innocent. “Oh, did he?” she says. “How unexpected.”

Graves sighs. “Tina.”

“What?” 

He makes a gesture that says  _ cleanup duty _ , and she groans. 

“ _ Okay _ , fine, alright.” At his expectant look, she waves a hand: “I might’ve given Newt some pointers on what ring to buy.”

Graves frowns. “Is that it?”

Tina grins. “That’s it,” she confirms, before getting up and walking to the door. “By the way, you might want to make sure you don’t work on the  _ Scamander _ Bill while Pickett’s with you.” 

The statement takes several seconds to process, during which Tina makes her daring escape out the door. Once the implications have sunk in, Graves stares after her in horror. “Goldstein!” 

He hears her laughter echoing down the hall. "Queenie says that a blue theme will suit your complexion the best!"

He was going to  _kill_ her.   


But first, he thinks, looking down at that smooth golden band on his hand, he has a blue-themed wedding to plan. 


End file.
